


Puzzle Pieces

by yttan



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Gen, Post-War, character study ran away and became shippy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-11-03 21:11:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10975407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yttan/pseuds/yttan
Summary: He is in pieces and she likes a puzzle. That is how it begins.





	Puzzle Pieces

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the magical E for betaing this fic that just wouldn't end! Went off memory and the occasional flight of fancy, so please excuse any canon inconsistencies.

He is in pieces and she likes a puzzle. That is how it begins.

 

The War is Over, according to everyone. “Everyone” being the ambiguous masses the Daily Prophet claims to speak for. “Everyone” being no one touched by it. Voldemort might be dead, but the war surges on under the skin of every muggleborn witch and wizard. Blood still leaks from the hearts of everyone who lost someone. They still fight for healing, for closure.

 

She’s not untouched as they like to think. Daft old Loony Lovegood. If she gazes off into the distance, it’s just some fanciful daydream. Not haunting echoes of innocence lost and friends found dead.

 

They both like the quiet places, and they find each other there. First by coincidence, then on purpose. At first George would hear her footsteps and start, like a deer in the woods. He looked hunted, like he expected the ragged, gushing wound in his chest to attract hungry fangs. But the wound is only imagery for the pain, and no wolves come. Just a girl with trauma of her own made terrifying by raw nerves.

 

He runs; she doesn’t follow. Instead she sighs and holds her book tighter to her chest, continuing to search for the perfect reading nook. There’s enough forest and meadow and sweet, open air for the both of them.

 

She sees him when she visits the Burrow, quieter than before. After the first run-in in the woods, he looks nervous, like he’s worried she’ll tell on him. Like she’ll worry his mother, dear Molly, already spread so thin and working so hard to hold everyone together, to build them back up. Luna stays quiet on the matter – offers George a long stare, a knowing nod, and no more. She does her job: infuses the space with as much light as she can manage, shaky and wrong-footed as it still feels. Off as it still feels for her, it seems to work. He looks relieved that her chatter doesn’t include him, and they don’t talk about it. Not even when the woods close in on them again and they don’t run. No words, because there aren’t any.

 

He lost more than most: his partner in crime, his twin brother. She almost gained more than she lost, though she doesn’t like to think of it that way. She had people who loved her and respected her and needed her, people not bound by blood. Friends. In a twisted way, what she had when the war lurched into violent motion, it was more than she had before the war. It wasn’t without costs, terrible costs she can hardly comprehend. Not an equivalent exchange by any measure. But it makes it easier to think of herself as a phoenix from the ashes.

 

After two weeks of silent meetings in the shifting shade of trees, Luna passes that on to George. “I think we’re like phoenixes, all of us. We just need to learn to use our voices again. The ashes can’t fill our throats forever.”

 

He looks surprised. At her words, or that she spoke at all, she can’t tell. “I guess you’re right.” There’s a pause. He splashes a stone into the stream, then whispers, “I just never thought I’d have to learn to fly alone.”

 

“You won’t. Not alone. Just not with who you expected.”

 

He looks at her dead on for a moment, and suddenly she feels like the puzzle. Politely, she stares at a cluster of mushrooms and tries to remember what kind of fairies and pixies prefer their shade. She wonders which kinds — of mushrooms, not faeries — are best in soups. They move on, silent as before.

 

—

 

Most days, they’ll meet at the top of a hill between their two houses in the early, grey mists of morning. They’ll wander together for hours until the fog clears away and the sun reaches its apex. Maybe it’s healing, seeing the world coming back to brilliant hues, like it will inspire something to awaken inside them again.

 

Their arrangement isn’t always as tranquil as all that sounds. Nor is it always so uniform.

 

Once, sitting alone in her new room with an easel and brush, painting the shades of red and black and dust out of her heart, she notices a figure out the window. The sun has just set, with enough light left to render the body a hazy smudge, but the hair and hunch of his shoulders are undeniable.

 

With quiet steps, she sneaks out of her home and goes to meet him. The floors of the house are yet unworn, the doors in the same places and yet gaping and unfamiliar. Luna realizes she never even needed moonlight to navigate her home before, but now her eyes seek the pools of light and fingers catch the curve of walls until she is in the open. Her fingers knot in the orange and pink knit blanket wrapped around her shoulders — more for comfort than warmth, the summer air not uncomfortable against her skin. He looks surprised to see her, as if he isn’t standing on her property waiting for her. They stand together for a while, Luna peering up at the greyscale his face has become, him swaying and looking at the ground.

 

“Mum asked me where I’ve been going every day.”

 

“Let’s walk.” She responds, like that’s a reasonable response. She knows it’s odd, but their dynamic seems to work well on the move. Like moving makes them the living embodiment of that old phrase _moving on_.

 

So they do, and he tells her all about how his mother tries to be supportive but can barely look at him. How, at first, when he would sneak back into the bustle of the Burrow in the afternoons, he wasn’t sure if they even noticed he was gone. He wasn’t sure if he’d wanted it that way or not. How Charlie offered to take him away to Egypt, how Ron will hug him now for no reason at all. He tells her everything except the obvious, the source.

 

His voice cracks, and though she doesn’t look to see them, she knows tears thread through the chasms. Her heart aches for him, with empathy both old and new, but she doesn’t say that. When he stops walking to brace his hands on his knees and gasp out wracking sobs, though, she helps him to the ground and wraps her blanket around them both with gentle care. Her own breathing gets shaky as he leans into her, his face buried against her stomach, damp tracks of tears growing on the fabric of her shirt. If a few of her own leak out, no one else is there to judge.

 

After his shoulders stop shaking with every breath, he finally says it.

 

“I miss Fred.”

 

—

 

Slowly, they start talking more, and Luna notices George policing his humor. After a half-dozen potentially amusing quips come out halfway and crack into silence, she realizes he’s still waiting for another voice to chime in.

 

She doesn’t try to take on that voice; she doesn’t know him well enough and it’s not what he needs. She barely even responds, no knowing glance filled with pity, just an encouraging silence, and he seems relieved by it. It strikes her that his family can’t always do that for him: let it slide. They’re dealing with the acute loss, too. Luna knew the twins, knew Fred, but not enough to feel the same empty reverberation every time Fred’s voice fails to echo George’s thoughts.

 

Slowly, she watches him develop his own humor, away from the tandem structure he’s used to. It’s tentative, and it’s dark at first, like the first spot of ink on paper, from the stutters of an unsure hand. But she can already see its future, see it smoothing into solo speech.

 

When he starts asking her about what kind of often-unacknowledged creatures live locally, she supposes maybe the interest in piecing together a puzzle wasn’t hers alone after all.

 

—

 

The first time she laughs is the first time she sees George grin. “I hadn’t realized, you’d stopped laughing.” He says. “It’s a good sound.”

 

“It’s good to see you smile.” Luna counters, feeling suddenly conscious of the wheezing, ragged void in her chest where safety and peace are supposed to nestle. Except the edges aren’t so tattered, and the pull isn’t so strong, and the moment of delight hovers and settles, becoming a stitch to close the hole. She laughs, but the world doesn’t descend into chaos; no Death Eaters come to strike her down.

 

No one is wounded.

 

No one dies.

 

They stand there, ridiculous grins aimed at each other. Not because the moment was so spectacularly happy or hilarious or any other number of things, but because they could. Because their time together was created for healing, for indulging in what no one else could give them: the space to ignore the world and to paint themselves back in color again. The world could use more color, and they had always been leaders in splashing it all over the place.

 

—

 

“It’s hardest at night. It’s the breathing.” George explains. He’s used to Fred’s peculiar snore and has never spent so much time without hearing it. None of his siblings share it; it belonged to Fred alone.

 

Luna innocently makes a comment about finding a new sleeping partner and bites the inside of her cheek when she realizes the innuendo. He grins, glancing at her out of the corners of his eyes. Insecurity flutters in her chest and she holds it tight. There was no time for petty insecurities during the takeover, and they’re a precious trifle she never thought she’d miss. As she always did, though, she releases the wings to the sky.

 

She doesn’t let a story from her childhood fly off unshared, though. She tells of how her mother always sang as she tucked Luna in every night. How after the accident, she cried herself to fitful sleep in silence until her father noticed. “His voice resembles an inflated frog,” she says with affection, “so he gave up trying to sing to me and started telling me stories instead. It helped. But the only way I could get to sleep at Malfoy Manor was by humming to myself.”

 

—

 

When Luna visits the Burrow, which she and her father often do now, it’s always hectic. Mrs. Weasley will give her a hug and tell her she looks well, pat a hand warmly to her shoulder for a moment before pointing her in the direction of her youngest children and bustling off to do a hundred and one things.

 

She’ll often try to find George first, if she can find him alone. He’s not always alone, though, and he has this look about him like there’s a part of himself with her and a part of himself with his family and the parts are not yet reconcilable. So she smiles vaguely and floats on to find her other friends in the house. She does take to leaving him presents sometimes, though. Like when she finds the first autumn oak leaves that perfectly match the color of his hair (she brings a bouquet of them and hands them out to Ginny and Ron as well). Or when she finds a “legitimate news article” (a ridiculous notion to her – everything is legitimate in its own way) about a breed of reclusive Irish imp known for its hallucinogenic venom that she always _said_ was real. She leaves the clipping under his pillow with a note: “I don’t often say ‘I told you so’, but…”

 

Much to Luna’s surprise, it takes several visits before anyone notices. Ron is the first one to catch her coming out of George’s room. He startles, recoils back into himself like a cat, hunched and ready to protect itself. Perhaps it’s the blonde of her hair in a household of copper heads, she muses. They’ve all lost the luxury of dulled nerves now, anything out of place or unexpected screaming out at them at top volume. It’s hard to leave the once lifesaving paranoia behind.

 

“Luna?” He looks perplexed, glance skittering from her face to the door behind her.

 

“Ronald.” She intones serenely.

 

“Were you just…”

 

She blinks. “Coming out of your brother’s room?” He stares. She continues, “Yes, I was.”

 

“Oh. Well. As long as you’re not lost…” Ron doesn’t sound entirely sure about his own words, but Hermione’s searching voice drifts up the stairs, calling his name, and his attention focuses. He takes a jerky step forward, momentarily torn between the thriving instinct to immediately throw himself into action and, presumably, the knowledge that he doesn’t have to anymore. Still, it’s Hermione, and he thumps down the stairs even as he turns to hesitantly offer, “George is with dad at the Ministry, should I tell him you were looking for him?”

 

Luna smiles, endeared by the offer. “No, that’s quite alright. Best go see what Hermione needs.”

 

Ron nods slowly and bounds down the stairs. Luna brings a thumb to her teeth and worries the nail, momentarily concerned she’s broken some sort of implied agreement with George to keep their friendship — well, not secret, perhaps, but unknown.

 

—

 

Just to be sure, the next night Luna tells George. They meet at the stone wall midway between their properties, the moon and stars casting enough silver light on his face that she can tell the exact moment when he can see hers.

 

He looks terrified, and that’s when she realizes she must look nervous. She shakes her head, placing her hands on the cool, rough rock on either side of her seat on the wall, “It’s okay, everyone’s safe. You just need to know something.”

 

The tension drains from him in choppy bursts, until finally he’s exhaling in one long stream and standing in front of her. “Why do you look worried, then?” She ducks her head down to watch herself stack her feet heel over toe. This is just the least sure-footed she’s felt about them. It’s only natural to feel nervous, she reminds herself.

 

“Ron saw me leaving your room.”

 

He just blinks.

 

“So, over nothing, that’s what I was worried about.”

 

George huffs out a short laugh and Luna lightly flicks his arm, “Ron’s sure to think it was odd, I didn’t want you to get caught off guard by it.” She pauses and adds more quietly, “I didn’t know if our walks were a secret or not.”

 

He’s sobered in an instant by that. There’s a long silence, during which his fingers tentatively find her knee — a gentle, physical pause button. _I have something to say, just let me find it_ , it says. It feels like the prelude to an apology. It’s confirmed when he finally speaks, “No, not a secret. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to become so secretive, I just — it was easier to keep it — our time — for myself.”

 

“You don’t have to tell anyone anything you don’t want to.”

 

“I shouldn’t be worrying you. Or making you lie.”

 

Luna quirks the corners of her lips and pinches his forearm, “It’s your family, George. If you’re not worried, now I know not to be. Who said anything about lying?”

 

He has the decency to look sheepish.

 

Luna hums. “That’s what I thought. I’ve always been honest with you, so why don’t we make a promise. My mum always said the truth is healing, and I think everyone can use a dose of that these days. So spread the truth. Next time someone asks about our time, just tell them. Alright?” She extends her pinkie finger. A slow smile comes to George’s face and he locks his pinkie around hers.

 

“No mucking about,” he agrees, sounding apprehensive but determined.

 

Luna swings their joined fingers for a moment before releasing him and saying, “Now let’s find those night-blooming flowers for your mum.”

 

—

 

Predictably, it’s Ginny who first broaches the subject with her a few days later. She’s sprawled across Ginny’s bed, one of Ginny’s romance books hovering over her face, pages flicking by at a slow pace. It startles her out of her reading when Ginny’s voice comes from her window nook, “Looks like George and Charlie are home.” There’s a pause as she cranes her neck to, presumably, watch her brothers cross the yard. There’s an edge to her voice when she continues, like her brothers have walked out of sight and it worries her and she’s determined to clench down on the feeling until it evaporates. “Lunch will probably be soon, then.”

 

“I always love your mum’s cooking, thank you for inviting me,” Luna says with a smile. Ginny waves a hand, perpetually dismissive of all the generosity she and her family exudes.

 

After a pause, she says, “George has been going on these ‘long walks’ for weeks now, wouldn’t say a word about what he was doing, just that he needs to go. Mum was frantic, of course, but he looks so much better after them — more and more — so she’s stopped pressing.

 

“So it’s _you_ George has been going off to see all this time, isn’t it?” Ah, Ginny. Always was so direct. It’s one of Luna’s favorite things about her. She sounds curious, maybe even relieved to have something so mundane to wonder about: the private life of her fractured brother.

 

In a slow creep, Luna folds her hands across her stomach, eyes tracing the cracks of paint on the ceiling of her friend’s bedroom. “I could paint you a mural if you wanted. Something happy.” She’s less direct. It was always one of her favorite things about herself.

 

But then she remembers George’s promise to her. Technically, she had made the same promise right back. “Yes, we’ve been meeting,” she says at last, because staying honest is important. And besides, being evasive and being direct are two sides of a coin she always liked to flip.

 

“You _are_!” Ginny sounds cheered, and Luna tilts her head to look at her with wide eyes and a tentative smile. She continues, “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe. I led Ron off the scent.”

 

“It’s not a secret, but thank you.”

 

Luna can feel the shift of the bed as Ginny sits against the headboard next to her, plucking her book from the air in front of her. “You’re helping him, however you’re doing it, so I’m grateful. At least someone can.”

 

She sounds so sad. Luna takes Ginny’s hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze, saying, “I’m not doing anything special, it’s just a safe space. He’s not alone, but — I don’t remind him of things. He’s just grieving and figuring out who he is without Fred, you know?”

 

Ginny is slow to nod, distracted fighting the tears at her lost brother’s name. “I can understand that.”

 

“I’m here for you, too, Gin.”

 

She squeezes Luna’s hand back, looking grateful for the reminder. There’s a long pause and then, “What about you? Has he been helping you?”

 

She takes a moment to think about it. How laughter doesn’t make her seize up in fear anymore. How her relationship with her father is mending and she feels more secure in her friendships than ever before. And in regards to George? Well, there’s a certain peace she finds most easily at his side.

 

“Yes, he’s been helping me. You’ve all been helping me.”

 

—

 

“Daddy wants to get the Quibbler running again. He wants me to help.” They’re in the meadow, weak sunlight breaking through the clouds. George’s hair is bright against the otherwise drab, muddy field. It flashes as he tilts his head to look at her.

 

“And what do you want?” He prompts.

 

“I think I still need to learn to be myself more, first.”

 

George snorts. “You were always the most self-assured person I ever knew. Besides myself, of course—” He falters. There’d been another. Luna soothes their missing pieces: “That was before. Have to learn the new us now, don’t we?”

 

He murmurs an agreement and pauses to pluck a blade of brown grass, twisting it between his fingers. Still crouched down, he says, “Ron’s offered to help me get the shop back up and running.”

 

“What do you want?” She mirrors.

 

He throws her a wry smile. “I think I need to learn to be myself more, first.”

 

The clouds scatter, revealing the sun for a few treasured minutes. The light accents the flint in her eyes, the honey in his. Like the sky and the ground. She is as light as air, her head above the clouds, her mind as vaulted and changeable as the sky. He is the ground, solid and sturdy. He is dry and cracked under the weight of loss, but settling into the aftershocks. The sky without a tether would float away; the ground without a hope would simply crumble.

 

—

 

Luna is sitting on the branch of a big beech tree, the bark sturdy and grey beneath her hands. George is sitting on the ground, back against the trunk, book in his lap. He hasn’t turned the page in a full seven minutes, so she feels relatively assured he’s wandering the maze of his own mind.

 

She decides to interrupt his stroll. “I’ve decided to go exploring.”

 

George starts, but he’s no longer a wounded animal. It’s more natural. He’s allowed to be distracted from the world now, nerves no longer exposed. Most of the time, anyway. Luna smiles, easy as breathing and fond as could be.

 

“Exploring?” George prompts. She got distracted, too.

 

“Yes.” Luna slides down from her branch, bare feet squishing deep in the damp earth. Wiggling her toes, she walks to George and plops down beside him. “I keep thinking, there’s more than just me to discover. There’s so much out there, and I want to see it.”

 

He’s looking at her, waiting for her to continue; she can feel it. No pressure, though. Just curiosity. “And since Daddy wants me to help with the Quibbler,” she continues, “I want to do it my way. I want to track the thestral population across Britain. I’m going to survey how many wizards can see them now. It was a somewhat rare quality before, but now… well, people don’t find me quite so Loony anymore.”

 

George gives her a nudge. _Don’t be bitter_ , it says, _we still find you perfectly ridiculous in other ways_. Luna smiles a little.

 

“There’s also a rumor muggles have started telling stories about big, skeletal horses again. I’d often wondered how often muggles who saw death saw thestrals, how they deal with it, that sort of thing. It’d be a perfect time to find out.”

 

“So you’re going to write about thestrals for the Quibbler?”

 

Luna nods. “It’ll be one of the big articles. Maybe not in the first few issues back, I’ve convinced him to make those accurate accounts of what happened during the war. The real stories, talk about who we lost. So many people are still in the dark about what happened. Merlin knows the Daily Prophet won’t shed any light. And how could anyone trust them after everything? Though, I suppose in the end even we succumbed to You-Know-Who’s — to Voldemort’s…”

 

George hasn’t stopped looking at her. Luna trails off her ramble to look back. If her cocked eyebrow seems arch, it’s only because it is. “You’re surprised?”

 

“You are a Ravenclaw,” he teases, “I thought for sure you’d go back to finish school right and proper.”

 

The joke is flimsy, founded on ground that is now scarred and bruised. She politely ignores the falters and teases back with an affectionate, “Is a Gryffindor exalting education over adventure?”

 

“How silly of me,” he concedes.

 

They both laugh, shoulders bumping. Fighting side by side had done wonders to break down the prejudices between Houses, at least between students who fought together. Luna imagines it will still take more work to eradicate the toxic attitudes the housing system itself could foster.

 

“People want the truth, and the Prophet will only ever tell the most comfortable version of it. The Quibbler could always be counted to look outside accepted paradigms,” Luna explains, “so why shouldn’t we continue that work now? The great mysteries of cryptozoology will always be waiting. This is more important. Everyone can’t just wait to read about it in the history books.”

 

George rubs a hand against his temple. “It’s so strange to think — we’ll all be in history books now.”

 

“I expect we’ll get the easy part, the passing mentions.” She pauses and says softly, “I worry about Harry, Ron, and Hermione.”

 

“They got an invitation to that big Ministry memoriam last week. Hermione looked ready to curse everyone into next year. Ron went white as a sheet. Harry — he looked too tired to even react. At least they have each other.”

 

Luna dips her head in a sad nod, inner eye wide to imagine the scene. In a slow, deliberate slouch, she rests her head on George’s shoulder, a small smile curling at her lips when George first tenses, then settles his own head against hers.

 

_At least we all have each other_ , she doesn’t say.

 

—

 

Luna decides to host a small dinner to say farewell to her friends before she leaves. Of course the youngest of the Weasley children come, as well as Harry, Hermione, Neville, and Dean. A trio of owls arrive from Seamus, Cho, and the Patil twins, expressing regrets that they can’t come, but wish her a successful journey with such sincerity that she feels afloat with happiness before her guests even arrive.

 

The final toast of the night comes after hours crowded around a food-laden table, laughter and shouts of conversation bouncing off the circular walls. Neville stands up and clears his throat, lifting his cup of pumpkin juice above their heads to signal the group to settle down, “Alright, alright. I think we can all say Luna is one of the most unique, fearless, intelligent people we’ve had the honor to know and fight beside.” There’s a pause of silence for those lost in those battles, a dark cloud spilling out and roiling over everyone’s heads at the reminder. Neville continues before the cloud can consume them, “And I think I speak for everyone when I say we all hope your travels bring everything you hope to find and more. To Luna!” A round of cheers sounds at that, muted by sadness and scars but mixed with all the hope they’re all trying to see in the future. The sound of clinking glasses and overlapping well-wishes turns abruptly into inquiries about dessert.

 

Luna beams from the head of the table the whole night, exchanging thanks to everyone there and leading the final round of dessert before people start exclaiming about the time and have to apparate home.

 

Neville is the first to go, giving her a kiss on the cheek and telling her to write to him about all the fascinating things she learns. Suddenly overwhelmed with how far they’d each come since they met, all the fighting and the planning and the hard knocks of growing up in the crunch of a war, she launches herself into his arms, hugs him tight and promises.

 

Dean goes next, proclaiming loudly how well he knows she’ll do and giving her a warm hug that she returns wholeheartedly.

 

Hermione and Harry go next. Hermione is as unsure around her as ever, rattling off words with little weight to them until finally that seems to give way with a deep breath to, “It’s a brave thing you’re doing Luna, I look forward to hearing about it all.” She seems surprised by her own sincerity. Harry nods and adds, “We all do.”

 

There’s still a raw quality to their smiles, all of them, but these two the most. It almost makes Luna want to stay. Almost. In the end, she’s not vital to their healing, and she needs to find her own.

 

Ron comes up behind them and cracks a joke about bringing him a souvenir. They all laugh, but it sounds like kindling before a fire starts, and it drains into silence. There’s only so long any of them can sustain lightheartedness. George rescues them with a dry, “Har, har, Ronald,” and herds the young heroes out the door with a nod and an added, “Don’t forget to write.”

 

Ginny’s the last one left. Luna’s chest gives a hitch of sadness as she is enveloped in a hug. “Don’t forget to keep your coin. Anything happens, we’ll find you,” Ginny mumbles into her hair.

 

Luna tightens her hug before releasing her friend. “It’ll be safe in my pocket. I’ll be back before you know it, safe as a hufflekiln on a new moon.” She’s trying to be reassuring, but somewhat suspects the watery line of her smile gives away how much she’ll miss them all. “Same for you, okay? Anything happens, just use the coin, I’ll apparate straight back. No thestral is as important as my friends.”

 

The line of her brow must wrinkle in worry, because Ginny huffs out a laugh. “I suddenly feel like mum. Worried about everything. I’m holding you to that. Prove to everyone it’s safe out there, alright?”

 

A slow smile curves at Luna’s mouth. She’ll still have to say goodbye to her father in the morning, make many of the same promises, but this is the first one, and it feels somehow more important: “Yes, I can do that.”

 

—

 

So Luna goes. She goes and she goes and she goes, across England, Scotland, Ireland, and even two brief forays into France. It’s hard work, tracking the thestrals, finding witches and wizards willing to talk to her. But as her network grows, so does her confidence and savvy. She keeps up frequent correspondence with her father through owls and the occasional Floo when someone opens up their home to her. The people she meets not only help her with her own story, but many of them help flesh out an account of what happened during the war. Not everyone is willing to talk, but those who are Luna immediately introduces to her father, the Quibbler’s primary writer.

 

“It’s so satisfying, George,” she says during one of her few face-to-flaming-face conversations with him, “all this lore I’ve never even heard before — and personal stories!” She could enthuse for hours, but she’s eager for news from home, too.

 

“I’m getting ready to open the shop back up next week,” George tells her, a heavy sigh fluttering the ashes around his face, “it still hurts, but Fred would want it. And I want it, to make people smile again.” His own smile is weak, but Luna’s is radiant at the news.

 

—

 

Luna’s father often worries about her, a constant swing between ‘are you lonely?’ and ‘aren’t you ever coming back?’. She checks in often, yet the fear of kidnapping lingers. She knows how scared he was when the Death Eaters took her, knows how desperate he was to get her back — and she feels guilty leaving him so soon. But it felt like now or never, and the reward has been nothing short of what she needed, rekindling her thirst for knowledge and adventure. Reestablishing her independence and self-reliance. Reminding her that for all the bad out there, good also shines. Still, she knows how worried he is about her safety. She insists the few escaped Death Eaters aren’t enough to scare her. At least, that’s what she tells him to soothe his fears. What use would there be in telling him she wakes up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, terrified she’s trapped in another dank cellar waiting for the torture to begin anew? No use, no point, though she does confess this to George in a letter.

 

She’s been away for three months at that point, focused on wizarding towns and about to embark on the muggle-centric leg of her adventure. When she sends the letter she expects a response later in the week, but she doesn’t expect a knock on the door of her room for the night. Ginny’s sheepish smile greets her on the other side. “Surprise!” She says, voice warbling too much to be entirely confident. She sways on her feet a moment, indecisive, then crumbles and pulls a stunned Luna into a hug.

 

The fear of trickery or attack takes a moment to fizzle out, and when it does Luna hugs her friend tight with a delighted, “What are you doing here?” Then, pulling away and unable to reign in a wary glance down the hall, “How did you find me?”

 

Now Ginny looks outright nervous, her bottom lip disappearing to be worried between her teeth as she strides into Luna’s sparse room. She drops herself onto the bed and her backpack at her feet. “Hermione did some spell — tracked your coin. I asked her to — I just. I got in a fight. With everyone, more or less — mum, Harry. I couldn’t take it anymore! All the coddling, like I didn’t fight just as hard as the rest of them—” she clenches her jaw, looking up at Luna with all the defiance leftover from the arguments. Any last dregs of fear that it isn’t the real Ginny slip away. Luna knows the friction Ginny’s feeling, and just sits beside her, shoulder to shoulder.

 

“Now that you’re here, do you want to come with me?”

 

Ginny looks equal parts relieved and delighted at the offer.

 

—

 

Luna decides she likes traveling with Ginny far better than going it alone. With her, it feels far less intimidating to delve into the muggle world. They’ve both rarely been amongst the muggles. Sure, there was the local village. People there thought them eccentric — the Lovegoods perhaps even more than the Weasleys — but harmless enough. But out here in the big wide world? They didn’t know what to expect. And even more, putting a stopper in the magic they’ve rarely ever had to hide is nerve-wracking for the both of them. Nonetheless, it’s a thrilling challenge they’re determined to rise to.

 

“Why am I so nervous? This is ridiculous,” Ginny says the first evening on the streets of muggle London. She lets out a high, abrupt laugh when she starts at a group of people exiting a bus. They force the lines of their bodies into something resembling nonchalance, but to the knowing eye their posture falls far short.

 

They’re grateful for the chill in the air, their coat pockets deep enough to slip their wands into without suspicion. Luna wraps her brightly gloved fingers around her wand, feeling reassured by the familiar feel of the wood.

 

“We’re adjusting,” she says with a grin. The war was fought for so many reasons, and standing here now feels like one of them. With cold air in her lungs and the whirlwind of an unfamiliar city around her, she feels like maybe they succeeded at something.

 

—

 

George’s letter, when Luna eventually gets it, beings with a series of wry allusions to Luna’s new traveling companion. In fact, his first serious sentence — nearly halfway down the page — is to say he’s glad she has someone there to watch her back now. She tries not to read into it that he wishes it were him, though Ginny makes no such attempts.

 

“Twat misses you more than his own sister,” she teases from over Luna’s shoulder, making her jump and close the letter.

 

“You shoved him over the garden wall not a week ago,” Luna says, trying to will away the flush on her cheeks.

 

The redhead _tsks_ goodnaturedly, “Nope, don’t think that’s it.”

 

—

 

The duo make it their unofficial side mission to live like the muggles do, a cleanse from all the devastation they’d seen magic create. No Muggle Studies class or talk with muggleborn friends could have prepared the two for it. Buses that run late (“But it’s supposed to be here _now_. Why is it taking so long, it’s been a whole five minutes!”), one broken finger that takes forever to heal in a cumbersome splint, and were their bags always this heavy?

 

But they do it, and they relish in it.

 

Especially the music. Live in dingy pubs, canned and crackling across the radio, they sing and laugh lyrics to each other in the streets as they traverse them. Between the stories and the lyrics, their lives are no longer contained within the bubble of the wizarding world. The knowledge fills them to the brim.

 

—

 

On their last day in the great wide world, they’re running on just enough money for one bed for the night. Shoulder to shoulder with her friend, breathing synchronized, Luna whispers into the dark, “I’m scared to go back.”

 

Ginny stirs, shifting to look at the shadow she knows is Luna. “I know what you mean.” There’s a pause. “The letter Harry wrote me? Apparently they — the media — are wondering where we’ve gone. They’re saying I’m pregnant and you’re at St. Mungo’s. Our parents tried to stop the stories at first, but apparently now he, George, and Ron are having a laugh feeding them ridiculous updates on the situation.”

 

Luna’s face breaks into a smile, imagining their friends gathering around to invent wild stories about their whereabouts.

 

“What I’m trying to say is: I’m scared too, but we’re not alone. We have our families and our friends. We can all be scared together, even if sometimes we have to run off across Europe to get away from each other — from everything — sometimes.”

 

“All my sage advice is rubbing off.”

 

“Oh, bugger off.”

 

They share a volley of fond elbow jabs before settling down with breathless giggles, eventually murmuring goodnight and drifting off till morning.

 

—

 

Luna has been home for over a week with nary a whisper from George. It’s been a year of constant letter writing and the time seems cavernous now. She’s been to the Weasley home a few times, but he’s been at the shop each visit, and every time she reaches for a handful of Floo powder she freezes in fear. Her quill doesn’t stop meeting paper, but the notes seem trivial once written down and never make it to him.

 

She thinks about the saying — that distance makes the heart grow fonder. Except it seems her heart never got the message. Distance, it seems, only makes her heart scared to close the distance. She knows she’s being ridiculous, but she can’t bring herself to stop, and besides, compiling all of her research notes into a coherent series of articles takes up all of her time.

 

The click of a beak at her windowsill at breakfast, however, finally plants a seed of courage. The owl is delivering a formal message from Headmistress McGonagall telling the Lovegoods that classes have, at last, resumed at Hogwarts. An invitation is extended to any who wish to return for classes despite their honorary qualifications, and the sorting ceremony is, for the first time, open to former students who wish to attend. Luna can’t imagine many will be ready to go back so soon, but she has a sense of who will go anyway. She will be among them, trying to replace the horror of the Great Hall blanketed in lifeless bodies with a crowd of innocent students awed by the beauty and possibility of the castle. Sometimes she fears she will never get back that pure wonderment in the face of magic.

 

But she has another fear to conquer first.

 

—

 

The last time Luna visited the Burrow, Mrs. Weasley told her George wasn’t there before she could even ask. Perhaps the shadow of disappointment over her face prompted Molly to bid Luna not to worry, her expression making Luna wonder precisely what the matriarch had planned.

 

Luna gets her answer when she enters the Weasley’s garden. During Luna’s own flurry of activity, latching the gate and a garden gnome biting her ankle, an arm roughly shoves a sputtering George out of the house.

 

They stare at each other for a moment, one of those long suspended ones that feels important.

 

Then the curtains twitch, and they snap out of it. The figures of Molly, Arthur, Ginny, Ron and Harry are faintly visible through the lace, attempting to look busy not looking out the window.

 

George and Luna look back at each other and burst out laughing.

 

The laughter brings levity to the space between them, and when they manage to stifle it they fall easily into a tight hug. “We’ve been avoiding each other, haven’t we.” Luna says, resting her head against his and loosening her arms around his neck, but still holding on. It’s a question, technically, but why bother asking it like one when they both know the answer?

 

“A little.” George pauses. “Maybe a little a lot.”

 

Luna huffs out a sigh into his shoulder. “That was very silly of us.”

 

She can feel his silent laugh, “Maybe a little a lot.”

 

They squeeze each other tighter, then release to get a good look at each other. George notices that Luna’s hair is short now, brushing her shoulders in thick waves, and that her eyes look more alive than he’s seen them since the fire of the war burned out. Luna notices that George’s hair is longer, red feathering out around his ears, and the strange marks on his clothes and chin imply that he’s found an outlet in inventing again.

 

“Did you find what you were looking for?”

 

A smile slowly dawns, lighting her face like the sun cresting the hills to the east. “I did.”

 

“Good,” George beams back, “I think I did too.”

 

“Good.”

 

Luna looks up intently at George. There’s an old saying: never ask a question you don’t already know the answer to. As a child, Luna always hated the phrase – didn’t the best questions result in a wondrous, unexpected answer? But she finds herself with a question on her tongue, and despite all her instinct that the other side of the question is the happy place she imagines it to be, she still fears the answer will be one she doesn’t want. Luna supposes she understands the saying now — but she still doesn’t agree with it.

 

“Hogwarts is opening again,” Luna starts. George nods, and he would almost appear calm if not for his thumbnail digging into the juncture of his opposite wrist, flaking away some black smudge there. “Are you going?”

 

Though George’s gaze is fixed on her, his stare is clearly far past her, this time or place. His exhale is ragged, but his eyes refocus on Luna and voice is strong when he asks, “Are you?”

 

“Yes. I’m scared to go. But yes.”

 

“I’m scared, too. But we can be scared together?” George reacts to his own question like he’s only just realized what he’s implied once it’s hanging in the air between them.

 

Luna’s smile is slow and bright. She extends her hand to him, “I’d like that.”

 

When George takes her hand, their fingers slot together like pieces of a puzzle solved.


End file.
